The Leap to Lanka

Rama and Lakshmana search the forest for any trace of Sita. Their search brings them to a new people: the vanaras, the forest-folk, often pictured as a noble race of monkeys, clever and brave and full of heart. vanara

Among them Rama makes a friendship that will change the whole story. The vanara prince Sugriva has been thrown off his throne and out of his home by his own brother, Vali, who is enormously strong. Sugriva lives in fear, hiding in the hills. He and Rama strike a bond: Rama will help Sugriva win back his kingdom, and Sugriva's people will help Rama find Sita.

Now here we must slow down and be honest, because a careful teacher does not skip the hard parts. When the moment comes, Rama kills Vali — but he does it with an arrow shot from hiding, while Vali is locked in a duel with Sugriva. He does not face Vali openly.

This troubles many people, and it should. Is it right to strike from concealment? The wonderful thing is that the epic itself does not hide from the question. Dying Vali asks Rama the very thing we are asking. Rama gives his reasons. And readers have argued about whether those reasons hold for thousands of years. The story trusts us to wrestle with it. That honesty is part of why it has lasted.

Hold that question lightly for now; we will return to the hardness of dharma more than once. With Sugriva back on his throne, the vanaras pour out to search every direction for Sita. And here the most beloved figure in the whole tale steps forward.

His name is Hanuman. He is a vanara, the son of the wind-god Vayu. He is strong beyond measure, deeply learned, and — this is the heart of him — utterly humble. He asks for nothing. He lives to serve. Of all the searchers, it is Hanuman who picks up Sita's trail and reaches the shore of the great sea, with Lanka shining far across the water.

The sea is too wide to cross. So Hanuman does something only he can do. He grows vast, climbs a mountain, gathers himself, and leaps — hurling his whole body into the sky, soaring over the open water toward the enemy's island. It is one of the great images of this tradition: pure devotion taking flight.

Listen to how the old poet gives us Hanuman's heart as he goes. He is not boasting. He is glad to be sent, glad to serve, swift as the arrow his master draws.

Hanuman lands in Lanka and searches in secret. At last he finds Sita, held captive in a grove of trees, watched by demons, grieving for Rama — but unbroken. She has refused Ravana again and again. Hanuman shows her Rama's ring so she will trust him, and he gives her the thing she had lost: hope. Rama is coming. She is not forgotten.

Now look closely at Hanuman, because in him a new idea is being born. He does everything — the leap, the danger, the search — not for a reward, not for fame, but out of pure, glad love for Rama. His joy is simply to serve the one he loves. The tradition has a name for this love: bhakti, loving devotion to the divine.

We only plant the seed of bhakti here, in Hanuman. It is small now, but watch it. Many ages from now, this single feeling — love offered freely to the divine — will grow into a great tide that sweeps across the whole land. For now, simply remember: you first felt bhakti here, in a humble servant with a vast and loving heart.